Who Shot Michael Scott?
by johngaltstrikes
Summary: An ambitious, destined-to-be-controversial, not-for-everyone multi-part saga that explores the question: who shot Michael Scott? Michael Scott is the world's nicest jerk we all love -- except for someone! New installments at least once a week. Like the sh
1. Part I: An Office Divided

How Juanita loathed cleaning the Dunder Mifflin office. She hated cleaning this office more than any other in this office park or in any of the office parks to which she was assigned. As the largest office in the park, it seemed like it took forever to clean. It was the only office with an annex. Oh, how she hated that annex – so much wasted space! And it was difficult to clean around all the nick-nacks these workers displayed the desks – particularly the bobble heads – and decorations that were strung up on holidays and birthdays, which seemed to occur every day around this place. Sometimes she accidentally sucked up the decorations with a vacuum. Oh well, they would just have to put up more. And they always did. And that microwave! It was the most vile thing she had ever seen in her entire life, and she refused to clean it, as did obviously every one else in the office.

She probably should have cleaned this office first, but she could never bring herself to. And this way, if she ran out of time before she was finished – which was quite common – at least all of the other offices would be clean. She knew the boss would never complain. She had met him a few times on nights he was working late, usually working on what appeared to be a movie. She wasn't exactly sure what his job was. She had always ensured that he witnessed her hard at work, with which she thought he always seemed pleased (and he was; it was probably a good thing she didn't speak English, because he would always compliment her on her "famous Hispanic work ethic" which he claimed his Hispanic employee lacked). And she always humored him when he spoke to her in the worst, unintentionally offensive Spanish she had ever heard.

She noticed that he was lying on the floor in his office, a position in which she had occasionally seen him. He must have been working late on another one of his movies again. Good, now she wouldn't have to clean his office. She particularly hated cleaning his office. He had lots of toys on his desk, and his office had a very strange odor about it. It was his office in which she had to remove the "package" from the carpet. As she was passing by, she noticed a stain on the carpet. Oh, no, what did he do this time? She looked more closely, and she noticed that it appeared to be blood – and that it was dripping from his body.


	2. Part II: The Injury

"Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam."

"Pam, it's Michael," she heard over the phone. "Come see me. Come see me right now."

"Michael, what's wrong?"

"I'm hurt. Oh my God!!!"

"You're hurt?" Pam looked doubtful. "Again?"

"Oh, this is not looking good Pam!"

"Michael, do you need me to call you an ambulance?"

"What?" asked Jim, who was in his usual position, leaning on the reception desk.

"No, I don't need an ambulance. I'm already in the hospital."

"Okay," Pam said.

"What's going on?" Jim asked.

"Ohh!"

"What happened?" Pam asked.

"I am hurt. My foot is hurt."

"I'm sorry?" Jim asked. "Pam, what's going on?"

"I want you all to come visit me."

Jim reached over the desk and hit the speakerphone button.

"Ohh, God!" Michael said over the speakerphone.

Angela looked over to see what was transpiring.

"Hey, whoa! Michael!" Jim said.

"Oh, God!"

"It's okay. It's Jim. Just say again, really loudly, uh, what happened."

"Okay. I was shot in the foot."

Everybody in the office was listening now.

"You burned your foot on the George Foreman Grill again?"

"No, of course not. How stupid do you think I am? I was shot in the foot, very badly in the foot, and I now need everyone to come to the hospital to see me."

"You shot yourself in the foot? How'd you manage that?"

"No, someone else shot my foot."

"Shot with what? Like one of those new-fangled computer cameras? Why would anyone want to take a picture of your foot?"

"No, shot with a gun, you idiot."

The office was silent.

"Pam, could you come see me?"

"Uh, I have to stay here and answer the phone."

"Okay, could everyone else come and see me, please? Ryan?"

Ryan froze at the mention of his name.

"Michael, you should stay there and rest," Pam said.

"I can't rest. They're trying to make me use a bedpan. They won't take me to use the bathroom. Can someone come and take me to the bathroom?"

"Can you hop?" Kevin asked.

"I can't hop, Kevin. I'm bedridden!"

People snickered.

"No one wants to come see me?"

Creed, in the background, shook his head.

Dwight walked up.

"What is going on? What is going on?" Dwight asked.

Trying not to laugh, Pam said, "Michael is, um" – she drew air quotes – "sick – again. And he wants us to go the hospital to rescue him – again."

"I'm not sick; I'm –"

"I'm coming, Michael!"

Dwight sprinted to his desk and grabbed his keys.

"I'm going to save you! Michael is in trouble!"

"Don't! Is that Dwight? I do not want Dwight."

"Okay, hold on Michael, I am coming! Wait there!"

Dwight sprinted out of the office.

"I do not want Dwight!"

"Michael, why don't you call your girlfriend?" Pam asked.

"You know damn well I don't have a girlfriend. Just, someone come, okay? Anyone. Anyone but Dwight."

"You know what, I think I'm going to go with Dwight," said Jim, turning serious.

"Why?" Pam asked, surprised.

"So Dwight doesn't suffer a real injury – another concussion. But I guess what I'm most concerned with damage is to company property, that's all. I don't want Dwight crashing into that pole again."

"That fence is actually owned by Beackman Properties," Pam said in her best teacher voice.

"Of course. How silly of me."

"It's okay. We all make mistakes."

"All right, well I'm going to get going before it's too late."

"Okay. Call me, babe."

"I will, babe."

Jim quickly kissed Pam and rushed out of the office.

"Hello? Please don't send Dwight."

TO BE CONTINUED....


	3. Part III

Just as Dwight was about to close the door to his car, Jim yelled across the parking lot, "Hey, Dwight, let me come along."

"Absolutely not. A hospital is a serious place, Jim. I'm not going to let you or your sorry excuse for comedy anywhere near our patient."

"Dwight, I just want to make sure you don't get another concussion."

"That's ridiculous. I'm not going to get another concussion."

"Probably not, but just in case, I think I should come with you. Because if you get another concussion, then you won't be able to help Michael."

"This is true. All right, you can come."

"Let's go in my car."

"Jim, speed is of the essence, and you drive a girly car. It might be too late by the time we get there."

"Then let me drive your car."

"You're joking. This is a 1987 Pontiac Trans Am. You couldn't handle this car. Just get in – we're wasting time."

"All right, but you have to promise to drive safely."

"Okay, fine."

"Say you promise."

"All right, I promise to drive safely. Now will you get in?"

"Okay."

"And don't touch anything."

"Don't touch anything? Like what – gadgets? Dwight, this isn't an Aston Martin."

"This car is a weapon, Jim."

"All right, Dwight, I promise not to touch your cassette deck."

Before Jim knew it, Dwight had screeched out of the parking lot, almost crashing into the pole again. This was all Jim could ask for. He breathed a sigh of relief. Before he knew it, they were at the hospital. And before he knew it, Dwight had bolted from the car and was halfway to the hospital entrance.

Dwight charged up to the counter. "Which room is Michael Scott in?"

"I'll be with you in one moment," said the nurse, who was on the phone.

"I don't have a minute to spare. This is an emergency."

"Please, sir."

"Do you have any idea who Michael Scott is? He is a very important man around Scranton. He's the regional manager of Dunder Mufflin Scranton."

"I said one moment."

"Do you have any idea who I am? I'm a Sheriff's deputy, and I can have the whole department down here like that," he said, snapping his fingers.

The nurse turned her back to him, ignoring him.

"Damn it!" Dwight shouted.

He furiously paced back and forth for what seemed like him to an eternity – in reality it was truly less than a minute – until the nurse hung up the phone.

"What room is Michael Scott in?"

"Michael Scott? Hmm, let me see."

She started typing on her computer.

"What kind of antique is that? Is that a Tandy? Are you using a Tandy?"

"Just be patient, sir. I assure you we have the most modern equipment."

Dwight resumed pacing, until the nurse said, "Oh, yes, Mr. Scott. _That_ one." The emphasis was completely lost on Dwight. "He's in room 69."

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

As Dwight was about to step into the elevator, he caught sight of Jim entering.

"He's in room 69. What took you so long?"

"Sure he is, Dwight. I had to park the car. You left it in an emergency zone. At a hospital. Isn't that against the law?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures."

As they rode up in the elevator, Dwight continually pressed the button for Michael's floor.

"Thats not going to make it go any faster."

"That's because it's a stupid elevator," Dwight said and continued pressing the button, even more frequently now.

When the door opened, Dwight darted out. Jim followed casually behind. Dwight opened a door and was greeted with an almost blood-curdling scream. He quickly shut the door.

"I think that was some sort of pigwoman"

"Sure it was, Dwight."

Thankfully, Dwight picked the correct room on the second try. He found Michael in a hospital bed watching 'Days of Our Lives' sipping from a Capri-Sun.

"Michael!"

"I told them not to send you? Why did they send you? Get out of here! Do you want to kill me?"

"You're obviously not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly. Ah, Jim!" He saw Jim step into the doorway, but he didn't notice the look of mild surprise on Jim's face when he saw Michael. "Thank God you came. Where's everyone else? Where's Pam? Where's Ryan?"

"It's just Dwight and me."

"Damn it. Is it so much to ask the entire office to come and see me? Well, at least you're here. Now you can take me to the bathroom."

"That's what Dwight is for."

"Ugh, gross."

"So, Michael," Jim said, "you must have burned yourself pretty badly on the Foreman Grill to wind up in the hospital. What exactly did you do?"

"How many times do I have to tell people? I didn't burn myself on the Foreman Grill. I was shot."

"In your foot?"

"In my foot."

"With a gun?"

"With a gun."

"By someone else?"

"By someone else."

"So if I go out into the hallway and find a nurse and ask her why you're in here, she'll tell me that someone shot you in the foot?"

"Yes. And while you're out there, ask if she can take me to the bathroom. But not the one who looks like Meredith. The one who looks kinda like Pam."

"Michael, if you're telling the truth, I will take you to the bathroom myself."

"Really?"

Jim hadn't seen Michael this excited in a while.

"Sure."

Jim walked into the hallway and asked the first nurse he found, "Excuse me, but could you tell me why Michael Scott in room 69 is here?"

"Oh, _that_ one. He was shot in the foot."

"With what?"

"A gun."

"But he shot himself, right?"

"No, it appears that someone else shot him."

Jim gulped.

After the shock had worn off, he dialed a number on his phone.

"Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam."

"Pam, it's Jim. Someone actually shot Michael in the foot."

Pam knew Jim's voice well enough to tell that he was being completely serious.

"Oh my God."

"Yeah."

"I'll get everyone down there as quickly as possible. See you soon."

"See you soon."


End file.
